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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758903">Night in the Brume</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisie/pseuds/Lisie'>Lisie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Lord Commander [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff, Headcanon, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:15:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisie/pseuds/Lisie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone told me about the WT event going on, so I decided to try write a couple of pieces. With the entry date looming, I don't know if I'll get around to entering but it seemed like fun. </p><p>This belongs to the "Listening to Music/Favourite Music" prompt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Lord Commander [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714444</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Night in the Brume</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He breathed in, the gentle smell of the wood assaulting his nose. It would always remain Aymeric's secret that he had chosen this piano for its distinctive deep brown casing, the warm red tones only revealing themselves where the light caught its smooth surface. Very rare was the chance that Aymeric had the time to explore his musical side, but today was special - he had been inspecting the restorative efforts in the Brume, and was once more brimming with pride for his people - their resourcefulness, hardiness, and determination already bearing fruit in the neighbourhood. Boxes of materials had begun to pile up, scaffolding seemingly reaching the sky had scaled its way up the stone walls, and Ishgardians - <i>Ishgardians</i> from all walks of life; some young, some old, some dressed in the finery of nobility, others in frugal commoner attire or stalwart armaments of the Knightly order; filled the streets, slowly beginning the arduous task of rebuilding what had been destroyed in the attack. What had impressed him so were the smiles on the people's faces - some of them had had their homes completely destroyed, brothers and sisters perished to war, and yet here they were, taking steps forward to their future, with not so much as a complaint, despite this being one of the regions of the city with the least financial resources. He had worked very hard to garner the interest of the High Houses, and to some extent had succeeded, though he was want to admit that it was the usual families - Hallienhart and Fortemps - that had been the most forthcoming with their offers. He needed to work harder. </p><p>But not tonight; tonight, he would like to indulge himself in a small celebration of his own, and an ode to all those that were lost on the Steps of Faith. While he was on his way back to his office, he had heard a small boy whistling as he carried planks of wood, and the tune had lodged itself firmly in his mind. He placed his fingertips gently on the keys and began to play. The tune started simple, a direct reflection of the one the boy had conjured, before it grew and grew, growing more complex, sometimes falling to pianissimo, other times building up into crashing crescendo. While he played he thought of everything that made Ishgard his precious home: the frigid winds that raced along the cobblestones; the towering Cathedral, with its beautiful stained glass scattering a kaleidoscope of colour against the pews; the Jeweled Crozier, its merchants humbly braving the cold, greeting and bowing politely to their customers in the distinctive Ishgardian manner, a far cry from the loud, bustling, overwhelming markets of other nations. All of it poured out into his music, his fingers dancing possessed across the keys.</p><p>After it was all over, he sat for a time in the now silent room. He looked out the window, at the stars twinkling through the frosty night. Rising from his seat, he decided that this piece was one that deserved to be penned down -  "Night in the Brume" sounded like a good title. Yes, I like it, he thought. </p><p>-------</p><p>Many months later, Aymeric once again found himself in the same room. His fingers thumbed through the sheet music he had prepared so long ago. He remembered the feelings from back then. He couldn't have even imagined that they could be surpassed, and yet they had. The Dragonsong War was at an end, all the mistakes of their forefathers had been brought to light, and his people began the small steps towards redemption. How could anyone have ever thought that the resilient people of Ishgard wouldn't be able to endure, no matter the cost. His father was a fool.<br/>
When he had discovered the truth (the real truth) about his nation's history, it was certainly shocking to him, who had grown up with what he had been told, however his anger had stemmed from the <i>lies</i>. Lies that were apparently justified because the people of Ishgard couldn't handle the truth. He sighed and looked up to the ceiling. It was all over now. Now they could rebuild, just as they always had, and always would, should the need arise. He placed the sheets of music on their stand, and once more placed his fingers on the keys, his hands feeling very stiff and unpracticed after so many months of nothing but pen and swordsmanship. As the piece came to an end, he gathered the parchment covered in his own musical notation into his hands, and made for the door. But what he saw as he turned rooted him in place. </p><p>There she was, leaning against the window frame, errant strands of her brown hair glowing a sheen of red where the moon's rays had settled. Aymeric's grip on the pages loosened, and they were sent crashing to the floor. He dropped to one knee, picking up the pages, all the while lamenting about what an idiot he must look. He daren't look up as she walked towards him, reaching down to help. By the Fury he had tried - <i>everything</i> - he could to get this woman out of his head, but he had failed. In fact, he didn't think he had ever failed so miserably and gloriously at anything else, ever. At least he had reached some level of acceptance though; he was simply going to have to learn how to live with them, without them ever surfacing beyond his own thoughts. His lips twitched ruefully - the instrument standing behind the pair was testament to the fact that wherever he went, and everything he did had become so tied to her he would never be able to escape, even if he had wanted to. He stole a glance at her, her head tilted forward, her hair falling across her face, one stray sliver caught in her lips. He so badly wanted to reach out to brush it away. 
</p><p>
She inhaled audibly, her breath catching for an instant before the words came tumbling out, "That was beautiful." It took a moment for Aymeric to realise what she might be referring to, as all his thoughts were currently revolving completely around the image in front of him, "The music?" He asked falteringly. Her eyes searched upwards to meet his. She looks... Mournful? He would be lying if he said he had become accustomed to her eyes; they really did seem capable of telling entire sagas all on their own. They could shine in joy, wince in pain, twinkle in excitement, and the list went on. Others had called her an unfathomable Warrior, but how could they say that when everything was so plain to see in those eyes, and in her smallest motions - the way she was oft to nibble nervously on her lips, or her fingers which pinched them gently when she was deep in thought, the slightest crease to her brow.
She nodded, her eyes still locked with his. He gulped, his throat feeling awfully tight, "Thank you." He did love that piece; it was probably the best and greatest he would ever come up with on his own, a moment of genius he could only attribute to the people for whom he wrote it, and the boy, carrying those large planks all that time ago. He felt a bit embarrassed that she had been listening - a little like he had his heart on display for her perusal. But if it was her, he didn't mind. </p><p>It suddenly occurred to him at this late juncture that he had no idea how she had gotten in here to begin with. "How did you... Um?" "The window," she began, "A little trick Estinien taught me - with him gone he told me you might be a little lonely." Aymeric chuckled wryly. He didn't know whether he wanted to hug or punch his friend the next time he saw him. "As long as..." Her eyes returned to the floor shyly, "That's ok with you?" Hug him. I'm definitely going to hug that awkward, anti-social idiot, even if it makes him scream in agony.<br/>
"Please. Anytime." He joined her, dropping his head to pick up the last of the sheets still laying on the floor.</p>
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